Meeting Mary Morstan
by Alaina N. McCoy
Summary: One-shot. Alternate Sherlock's return, in the restaurant in the s3 trailer. Written before I'd seen The Empty Hearse. Sorta Johnlock.


John took another sip of wine and checked his watch again. She was late - of course she was late. Why did it surprise him that this was not going well?

It was the therapist's fault. She'd been the one to suggest online dating. Mary Morstan was the woman he'd ended up talking to, and he liked her a great deal. There was something comforting and almost familiar about her. She lived near him, so they'd arranged this first meeting - this first date. It was the doctor's first date in two years, and as he sat waiting he tried very hard not to think about the reason why.

He glanced around the restaurant in search of some distraction, and his eyes came to rest unwillingly on the silver cane leaning beside his chair. The one he thought he'd never need again. John's leg had started to bother him almost immediately after - he swallowed hard - after Sherlock's suicide. He'd resisted as long as he possibly could, but eventually it became painful to walk without a cane. His cheeks grew hot at the very thought of what Sherlock would say, of the snide and irritating but completely accurate deduction he would rattle off.

But John couldn't help it. The ability to run had been given him by his dead best friend, and to run with anyone else would've been betrayal. He could not and would not in any way betray the man who had given him back both his leg and his life. He would get over Sherlock in the same way that he once thought he would get over the war: never.

He sighed, sipped his wine, and decided to wait a few more minutes before he left. Then he would have to go back and tell his therapist what had happened, and he would probably see the same disappointment in her eyes that had appeared when he'd limped back into her office nearly two years ago with cane in hand. The ex-blogger wasn't terribly fond of therapy or his therapist, but he hated to disappoint anyone, especially when their disappointment mirrored his own.

John finished off his wine and was about to give it up and leave when a flash of black curls on top of a lean frame arrested his eyes. The cane he'd been gripping clattered to the floor and pain shot through his bad-but-not-actually-bad-leg.

"Sher… Sherlock?"

At first John honestly didn't believe it was him. For a brief second the word _doppelganger_ flitted through his mind, but even this mad universe couldn't play such a cruel trick.

But there was so much emotion in his icy eyes that it made John doubt the reality of everything all over again. He'd never seen Sherlock look like that, not even when Irene was dead, and not even when he was putting on his little shows of normalcy for cases.

So either John had gone completely and utterly mad, or that ice cube of a bastard had been alive for three years without telling his best friend.

"Firstly, John, I would like the chance to explain to-" John never got to hear the end of that sentence because his fist was connecting with Sherlock's face. Even as Sherlock reeled back from the punch, he knew that no real harm was meant. Irene Adler's words echoed in both minds: "…someone loves you..."

John was breathing hard and his face was red as a beet. He was angry as hell, but he also felt like crying, laughing, passing out, or possibly punching Sherlock again. Most of him didn't believe that this was real, so he made to step around the table, just to touch the figure in front of him. Just to make sure.

But apparently his leg didn't believe the man with a fresh bruise blooming on his face was real either. It gave out, and John lurched forwards and would've fallen.

But two long, strong arms plucked him out of the air and held him close. Somewhere in the back of his mind, John remembered thinking that if a hug was ever initiated between the two of them, Sherlock would not be the one to encourage such sentimental behavior, so he was extremely surprised when he was not immediately let go of. He was far from even considering recoiling from the contact, however, and wrapped his arms around his dead-but-not-dead best friend, squeezing him tightly just to _feel _that he was real, that he was there. Sherlock pressed his hands to John's back, and John didn't see him blinking rapidly, eyelids flitting over damp, icy eyes.

By the time they both pulled apart the hostess was standing next to them with a murderous expression on her pretty face. "Leave the premises _immediately!_" The rest of her half whispered, half shouted rant was lost on the two of them.

The whole time, the only word John had spoken was Sherlock's name. The whole of his turmoil had been contained inside his head, which felt like it was about to explode. John grabbed Sherlock's arm and matched him resolutely out of the restaurant, and both his cane and his date were long forgotten.

"So," John said finally. Sherlock glanced away. "So you're not dead."

"No." He paused for a moment. "All right, you have questions," he said softly, just the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

John remembered too, but he couldn't smile. Not now. Not yet.

"Hell, Sherlock, I don't even know," he sighed. "I guess- I just… Why?" he said softly, looking up at the taller man with grief in his eyes. "Why would you just leave me- everyone- like that?"

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes before answering slowly, "John, Moriarty-"

"JESUS, SHERLOCK!" John exploded._ "_For the love of God, I was there, you made me _watch _you. There was no _bloody_ way he made you jump, and besides we found him up there dead-"

"Listen to me, John!" Sherlock commanded. His voice was strong but he sounded so weary, like the last two years had taken a lot out of him. John almost felt apologetic.

"Moriarty had snipers ready to take out Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… And you, John. If they didn't see me jump, they would have killed you all. But there was a word, or a phrase- something- that he could use to call them off, and if he was alive he knew I'd get it out of him."

"But you knew." Sherlock nodded, turning and striding down the street. John hurried to catch up. Christ, he was out of shape.

"Of course I knew. But it had to seem real, so I had to get rid of you. I'm sorry." John felt a twinge of hurt at the phrase 'get rid of you,' but he shook it off.

"But _how_?" Sherlock's gloved hands twitched upwards and John rolled his eyes even before the coat collar got turned up.

John made Sherlock explain three times before he was certain he'd gotten it all, by which time they were back at Baker Street sipping tea. Sherlock had been remarkably patient, until John nearly leaped out of his seat when he remembered Mary.

"_Dammit." _He glanced at his watch. "She probably hates me. Stood up by some depressed, pathetic bloke she met on the internet."

A deep chuckle resonated from Sherlock's throat.

"Never mind her, John. Stay with me." There was no way he could say no to that. John had the feeling that letting Sherlock out of his sight at all would be very uncomfortable for the next few days.

"Which reminds me," John said, sitting back down. "I had another question, about your arrival this evening."

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry I surprised you in a public place-"

"But how did you know where I was?" The corners of Sherlock's lips curled into a sly smile.

"You invited me, John." It took a few seconds for the pieces to click into place in John's mind.

That absolute_ prat_.

"You. You're Mary. You were Mary bloody Morstan the whole bloody time." His brow wrinkled slightly. "But I did a background check on her, how did you-" as soon as he spoke the words the answer seemed blatantly obvious. "Mycroft." Ebony curls bobbed up and down in silent affirmation. "Jesus," John sighed for probably the hundredth time.

Sherlock was about to point out that repeatedly uttering the name of a man who lived thousands of years ago and around whom was centered a collection of myths was hardly helpful, but wisely decided against it.

John, meanwhile, was preoccupied with the fact that he and Sherlock had technically dated online for a couple weeks, which was longer than most of his girlfriends lasted.

"Well, it doesn't count since I thought you were a woman," he announced resolutely. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and decided to keep his thoughts to himself.

"The thought never even crossed my mind."


End file.
